He clankit Ethert o’er the head
A deep wound and a sair,
Till the best blood in his body
Came running o’er his hair.
“Now, I’ve slayne twa; slay ye the ane;
Isna that gude companye?
And though the ane shou’d slay ye baith.
Ye’se get nae help of me.”
The twa-some they ha’e slayne the ane,
They maul’d him cruellie;
Then hung him over the draw-brig,
That all the host might see.
They rade their horse, they ran their horse,
Then hover’d on the lee:
“We be three lads of fair Scotland,
That fain wou’d fighting see.”
This boasting when young Edward heard,
An angry man was he:
“I’ll take yon lad, I’ll bind yon lad,
And bring him bound to thee!
“Now, God forbid,” king Edward said,
“That ever thou shou’d try!
Three worthy leaders we ha’e lost,
And thou the forth wou’d lie.
“If thou shou’dst hang on yon draw-brig,
Blythe wou’d I never be.”
But, with the poll-axe in his hand,
Upon the brig sprang be.
The first stroke that young Edward ga’e,
He struck with might and main;
He clove the Maitland’s helmet stout,
And bit right nigh the brain.
When Maitland saw his ain blood fall,
An angry man was he;
He let his weapon frae him fall,
And at his throat did flee.
And thrice about he did him swing,
Till on the ground he light,
Where he has halden young Edward,
Tho’ he was great in might.